Page 50 of Ginger

“And you did. Now, this is between me and her. You and Detroit get the fuck out.”

With no other choice, I did as he said, hoping KiKi would be okay.

Chapter Seventeen

Ginger

My fingers twisted together in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my palms as I tried to keep my breathing steady. The clubhouse hummed around me with the usual energy, but I might as well have been underwater for all I heard. KiKi was in trouble. And in this world, trouble never stayed small.

The corner table had become my refuge—dark enough to disappear into when needed, positioned perfectly to see both the main entrance and the hallway leading to the back rooms. Right now, that strategic position felt like a burden. I'd watched three prospects carry in cases of whiskey, the club girls flutter in and out like territorial birds, and at least five members head toward the chapel for what wasn't supposed to be meeting night. Something was happening, and that made KiKi's situation even more dangerous.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, checking it for the tenth time in as many minutes. Nothing. My last text to her—You okay?—sat unanswered.

Movement caught my eye—two broad figures cutting through the crowded room with purpose. Bronx and Reno. My chest tightened. The way they moved—direct, gazes locked on me—told me they had noticed something was off.

I straightened, wiping my damp palms against my jeans. These men noticed everything. It's what kept them alive. And right now, their full attention was trained on me.

Bronx reached the table first, his frame casting a shadow over me as he slid into the chair opposite. The leather of his cut creaked as he leaned forward, forearms on the table. His gaze searched my face.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond our table.

Reno stepped beside me, one hand coming to rest on the back of my chair. Not touching me, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. A silent sentinel. Protection and warning wrapped in one.

"Nothing," I said, the lie so transparent I couldn't even commit to it. My voice cracked on the second syllable.

Bronx's eyebrow lifted slightly—a movement so subtle you'd miss it if you weren't looking for it. But I'd learned to read these men, at least a little. That eyebrow meant he knew I was bullshitting him and wasn't going to waste time calling me on it.

"Try again," he said.

I swallowed, glancing around the room. Two prospects were playing pool, their laughter too loud, too forced. A group of members huddled near the bar, heads bent in conversation. Two club girls perched on barstools, watching the room like hawks. Too many eyes. Too many ears.

"I—" My voice faltered. "It's probably nothing."

Reno's fingers brushed against my shoulder, a touch so light it could have been my imagination. "Ginger," he said, my name carrying a warning. "We don't do this dance."

He was right. In their world, hesitation got people hurt. Information was currency, and right now, I was hoarding what might be valuable coins.

"It's KiKi," I finally whispered. "I think she's in trouble."

The energy between the two men shifted instantly. I felt it like the way the air feels just before lightning strikes.

Bronx's fingers tapped once, twice on the table. "What kind?"

"The Vegas kind.”

Reno's hand tightened on my chair. "When?"

"I went with her to see Vegas. She had something to confess. Then Vegas kicked me out, and she hasn’t been back out here. It’s been an hour or more."

Bronx's eyes flicked to the crowded room, then back to me. His jaw worked, muscles flexing beneath the dark stubble. "Not here," he said.

I nodded, relief and new tension warring inside me.

"Upstairs," Reno said, his voice a rumble close to my ear.

I stood, my legs shakier than I'd expected. Reno's hand found the small of my back, steadying me without making it obvious to anyone watching.

Bronx rose, towering over me. "Don't look like we're heading to a funeral."

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